Noyon's father led Pitt and Giordino around the left side of the ger to some stools near the hearth. A slight woman with long black hair and cheerful eyes tending a battered teapot smiled at the men. Seeing their exhausted state, she brought damp towels to wash their face and hands, then set some strips of mutton to boil in a pot of water. Noticing the bloody bandage on Pitt's leg, she cleaned the dressing as the men downed cup after cup of watery black tea. When the mutton was cooked, she proudly served up a giant portion to each man, accompanied by a tray of dried cheeses. To the famished men, the flavor-challenged meal tasted like French haute cuisine. After devouring the mutton and cheese, the man brought over a leather bag filled with the home-fermented mare's milk, called airag, and filled three cups.
Noyon entered the ger and sat down behind the men to act as interpreter for his parents, who did not speak English. His father spoke quietly in a deep tone, looking Pitt and Giordino in the eye.
"My father, Tsengel, and my mother, Ariunaa, welcome you to their home," the boy said.
"We thank you for your hospitality. You have truly saved our lives," Pitt said, sampling the airag with a toast. He decided the brew tasted like warm beer mixed with buttermilk.
"Tell me, what are you doing in the Gobi without provisions?" Tsengel asked through his son.
"We became separated from our tour group during a brief visit into the desert," Giordino fibbed. "We retraced our steps but got lost when the sandstorm struck last night."
"You were lucky my son found you. There are few settlements in this region of the desert."
"How far are we from the nearest village?" Pitt asked.
"There is a small settlement about twenty kilometers from here. But enough questions for now," Tsengel said, seeing the weary look in both men's eyes. "You must rest after your meal. We will talk again later."
Noyon led the men to two of the small beds, then followed his father outside to tend the herd. Pitt lay back on the cushioned bed and admired the bright yellow roof supports overhead before falling into a deep, heavy sleep.
He and Giordino woke before dusk to the recurring smell of mutton boiling on the hearth. They stretched their legs outside the ger, walking amid the docile herd of camels that roamed freely about. Tsengel and Noyon soon came galloping up, having spent the afternoon rounding up strays.
"You are looking fit now," Tsengel said through his son.
"Feeling fit as well," Pitt replied. The food, liquids, and rest had quickly revitalized the two men and they felt surprisingly refreshed.
"My wife's cooking. It is an elixir," the man grinned. Tying their horses to the hitching rope then washing at a bucket of soapy water, he led them back into the ger. Another meal of mutton and dried cheese awaited them, accompanied by cooked noodles. This time, Pitt and Giordino consumed the meal with much less relish. The airag was produced earlier and poured in larger quantities, consumed out of small ceramic bowls that never seemed to empty.
"You have an impressive herd," Giordino remarked, complimenting his host. "How many head?"
"We own one hundred thirty camels and five horses," Tsengel replied. "A satisfactory herd, yet it is a quarter the size of what we once owned on the other side of the border."
"In Chinese Inner Mongolia?"
"Yes, the so-called autonomous region, which has become little more than another Chinese province."
Tsengel looked into the fire with a glint of anger in his eyes.
"Why did you leave?"
Tsengel nodded toward a faded black-and-white photograph on the altar, which showed a boy on a horse and an older man holding the reins. The penetrating eyes of the boy revealed it was a young Tsengel, alongside his own father.
"At least five generations of my ancestors have herded on the eastern fields of the Gobi. My father owned a herd of over two thousand camels at one time. But those days have vanished in the winds.
There is no place for a simple herder in those lands anymore. The Chinese bureaucrats keep commandeering the land without regard to its natural balance. Time and again, we have been pushed out of our ancestral grazing lands and forced to drive our herds to the harshest portions of the desert.
Meanwhile, they suck the water out wherever they can, for the noble cause of industrializing the state. As a result, the grasslands are disappearing right under their noses. The desert is growing day by day, but it is a dead desert. The fools will not see it until the sands begin to consume their capital of Beijing, by which time it will be too late. For my family's sake, I had no choice but to cross the border. The grazing conditions are sparse, but at least the herder is still respected here," he said proudly.
Pitt took another sip of the bitter-tasting airag as he studied the old photograph.
"It is always a crime to take away a man's livelihood," he said.
His gaze drifted over to a framed print mounted at the back of the altar. The portrait of a rotund man with a stringy goatee peered back, drawn in an ancient stylized hand.
"Tsengel, who is that on the altar?"
"The Yuan emperor, Kublai. Most powerful ruler of the world, yet benevolent friend of the common man," Tsengel replied, as if the emperor were still alive.
"Kublai Khan?" Giordino asked.
Tsengel nodded. "It was a far better time when the Mongol ruled China," he added wistfully.
"It is a much different world today, I'm afraid," Pitt said.
The airag was taking its toll on Tsengel, who had consumed several bowls of the potent brew. His eyes grew glassy and his emotions more visceral as the mare's milk disappeared down his throat. Finding the geopolitical conversation becoming a little too sensitive for the man, Pitt tried to change the subject.
"Tsengel, we stumbled upon a strange sight in the desert before the sandstorm struck. It was an artificial village surrounded by wooden camels. Do you know the place?"
Tsengel responded by laughing with a throaty guffaw.
"Ah, yes, the richest herdsmen in the Gobi. Only his mares don't produce a drop of milk," he smiled, taking another sip of airag.
"Who built it?" Giordino asked.
"A large crew of men appeared in the desert with equipment, pipe, and a digging machine. They dug tunnels under the surface that run for many kilometers. I was paid a small fee to direct their foreman to the nearest well. He told me that they worked for an oil company in Ulaanbaatar, but were sworn not to tell anyone of their work. Several of the crewmen who talked loudly had disappeared suddenly and the rest of the workers were very nervous. They quickly built the wooden camels and large tanks that look like gers, then the men vanished. The tanks in the village stand empty, collecting only dust from the wind.
That was many months ago, and I have seen no one return since. It is just like the others."
"Which others?" Pitt asked.
"There are three other camps of metal gers located near the border. They are all the same. They stand empty, but for the wooden camels."
"Are there existing oil wells or oil drilling in the area?" Pitt asked.